Truth and Consequences
by Seyi
Summary: Bookbased. Amy comes to a realization when Laurie comes to her in Switzerland after Beth's death, and knows she has to make a decision. Will any or all have a happy ending? Updated, I'm going to try and finish, and soon. Please review!
1. Chapter 1

"Laurie?" Amy said softly, drawing open the parlor's heavy French doors before creeping into the room. Dusk had fallen early on that evening in Switzerland, thanks to a persistent rain; and a damp chill pervaded the whole chalet. It seeped through Amy's black wool dress, though the heavy garment swathed her from neck to ankles, and she instinctively pulled her full skirts close to her legs, crossing the landing silently. Her warm knit shawl was inside, draped over the sofa; she'd left it there earlier in the day, when she'd been sketching.

The parlor was dark as it was outside, save for the light of a singe candle, glimmering on a heavy wood table. Amy paused, smiling slightly as she saw the pale illumination reflect off a fine, dark head bent over her shawl, as if in sleep. It was indeed Laurie, she knew at a glance. Not many men could boast of that height, especially while sitting down.

'I'll surprise him,' Amy thought—and moved smoothly over the floor without so much as a creak. Days of tip-toeing around first Aunt March, then Beth, then the Carrolls had left her with an uncanny ability for stealth that no one would have supposed, coming form her. She paused at the edge of the sofa, one hand going up to smooth her hair, full mouth curving up slightly. She knew, with a sudden flash of girlish pride, how flattering the light would be on her fair skin and golden hair; and then she drew back, as if ashamed of her own vanity. The light suited Laurie well, she noted with pleasure. Harsh shadows outlined his strong jaw and fine features; and he looked more like a swarthy Italian than even as the dimness robbed his complexion of any of the pale English tints she'd seen so much since she'd come abroad. His eyes looked coal-black, and shone as they never had before.

Laurie was a man. And a striking one, at that.

Amy lowered her eyes in a sudden confusion, and was vexed to find herself blushing; in a moment, just looking at her fiancé had reduced her from being a 'cool, reserved and worldly creature,' to being a child of twelve again, spying on her older sister's unreachable, handsome friend. The feeling was more than a little unsettling; and she drew herself up sternly.

'He wants you; he said so,' she told herself, and felt something inside her turn over, a feeling that made her want to run for the door and embrace him, all at once. But then Laurie moved, and she froze, eyes flickering down to his hands. In them lay her journal, her personal sketchpad.

Amy wasn't taken aback by the fact that he was clearly looking through it; she was far too practical a little woman to record her most private thoughts in so blatant a manner. Still, her sisters had been heavy on her mind of late, and their faces appeared often in her newest pages, penned in stark, simple black-and-white. Strangely, it was Jo she drew the most lately, not Beth; her older sister's sharp, odd, angular face loomed the clearest in Amy's mind. Beth always seemed so ereathal, so angelic that her spirit seemed beyond the reach of Amy's humble pen. Meg was done in watercolors, and carefully constructed sweetness, but Jo—

Jo was always alive, vibrant, leaping off her pages with something more primitive than beauty. She could be imposing, dignified, wild, or grotesque in turns; but there was a richness, a honesty to the awkward figure that Amy remembered, wanted to convey to paper. It was one of these sketches that Laurie was looking at; one she'd penned recently, after Beth's death, during that horrible, solitary time when she'd been waiting for him. It was a good-sized sketch, drawn from a distant memory that still haunted Amy's dreams sometimes; a disheveled, dirty, wild-eyed Jo, cap off, braids askew, skinny, coltish frame bundled against a cold wind. She was stretched out over a patch of cracking ice, bruised, bloody hands clinging to a rail----

Amy's slender shoulders lifted in an involuntary shiver, as if she could still feel the water's icy swallow, the pin-like sensations on her arms, her legs, her skin. But it wasn't a frozen-over lake this time; it was the way that Laurie was gazing at Jo. Or rather, the image of her on the page.

Amy's stomach twisted once, rather violently; and for a moment, she thought she would be ill. She managed to compose herself, moving to the edge of the sofa, still silent. She lowered herself gracefully, spreading her long skirts. "I did that the day I heard about Beth," she said; and her voice sounded unnatural to her. Laurie started beside her, but she didn't react.

After a moment, he spoke, pushing the book away. "It's an excellent likeness; I'll never forget that day," he said; and she could hear him forcing humor into his tone. "Poor Beth," he added, more tenderly; and he instinctively reached for the light head now hovering close to his, pulling it down to his shoulder. "How are you, little maid?" he added.

"Passable." Her voice wavered for a moment; but pride held her steady. Laurie's hand was in her hair now, winding her thick curls round his fingers. He enjoyed doing this, though he knew she hated to muss her hair; then when it tumbled down nearly to her waist, called her 'Mademoiselle Godiva,' to enrage her. She usually shrugged such behavior off with a laughter-choked reprimand or a playful rap on his knuckles with her pen, but to-night it felt too much like her hair-ribbon tugging days for comfort. Her own small hand slipped upwards, stopping his.

"I fear you drifted off," she said, and was fairly surprised by how cool and detached she sounded. "Aunt will be by to throw you out directly, if you aren't careful."

His mouth curved up. "How European you're getting," he teased, trying to keep the mood light. "I stayed to romp much later than this most nights back home, Amy."

"We were children then," Amy replied; then she stood. Thanks to his rough handling, two hairpins had slipped out, landing cold and hard inside her collar, and a thick coil of curly hair loosened, drooping over one ear. Suddenly impatient, she gave her head a couple good shakes, like a dog. Pins loosed and went flying, and braids and curls fell thick and heavy over her shoulders, like a blanket. After a moment, she looked down. Laurie was on the floor, at her feet; he was gathering the scattered pins and laughing quietly. "You look like Athena, about to strike down Tiresias," he said.

A slight smile played on Amy's lips, despite herself. In the darkness and her black dress, her face and hands emerged pale and white, and her eyes were very blue, framed by the thick waves of hair. She looked tall, she knew, imposing and terrible. Not womanly, at all; not the soft, fragile creature Laurie had seen when he'd come to comfort her here. "I won't strike you down," she said in something more like her own tone, and sat on the floor as she hadn't done since she was a child, smiling at him as if she hadn't seen him looking at that sketch of Jo with such incredible tenderness….

The tenderness was gone—nowhere to be seen, even in his eyes. It was all mirth on his face now.

Amy was jolted from her thoughts when she felt Laurie's hand cupping her cheek, his eyes flickering over her face. Aside from that initial kiss that day on the lake, he'd been a perfect gentleman, but now…

'Maybe…maybe he wasn't thinking of her,' she thought almost desperately, tilting her small chin up. Her next sensation was that of his lips touching hers. They were soft, warm, gentle as they'd been the first time—and here, in this secluded place, she felt the effect all the more. Perhaps…

Then Laurie drew back and smiled, and she knew. She knew. The look in his eyes was one of fondness, yes. Maybe even love, in a sense. Certainly a gentle amusement at the maidenly blush that now covered her cheeks—she was her mother's daughter, after all. But for all the intensity his look gave her, they could have been twelve and sixteen again, acting in one of those melodramatic plays of Jo's. And the way he had looked at Jo's picture---

There had been a hunger in that look that had been naked on his face, unmistakable, even to her eyes. It was the hunger of a man she'd only seen glimpses of, a man who wanted a woman she hadn't a hope of becoming. Her eyes closed against the image of herself in Laurie's eyes; she did not want to see how she didn't measure up.

"Amy?"

She shook her head, pulled away, inhaled shallowly. Suddenly her dress seemed much too restricting. Inwardly cursing the corsets she'd taken to wearing at her aunt's insistence, she bit her lower lip.

"Amy." He sounded worried, now. He touched her briefly, but she shook her head hard and pulled away completely. If she was going to do this, she couldn't look at him.

"Laurie—"

"Yes, my dear."

Amy winced at the name, as well as the gallant tone he put to it. "You…must go home, Laurie. To her. Jo," she clarified after a moment.

She felt rather than saw him stiffen, but she steadfastly refused to meet his expression. Instead, she stood.

When she looked down, his head was bowed. "Amy—"

"Don't." Her voice was quiet, surprisingly steady. "She needs you, and you don't— " 'Love me,' were her next words, but she stopped. It is difficult for a young heart to admit such a thing, no matter how glaring the truth. Her fingers nervously picked at her skirt as she continued, still looking down. "Aunt is poorly; it prevents me from going. You have no such imcumberancs, and Jo—"

It was here she had to stop; the words would shatter her composure if she didn't. "I miss her," Amy finally finished, so softly that it was hard for either of them to hear her words. "Please tell her."

Laurie shot to his feet like a rocket, eyes grace and disturbed, face darker, angrier than she'd ever seen it. She'd done this deliberately, opened an old wound. "Amy—" he began, and his voice was harsh. Angry. Confused.

And the indecision in those dark eyes removed every last, flitting doubt, told her what she needed to know.

Abruptly, she quit the room.


	2. Chapter 2

"Your stateroom is ready, Mr. Laurence."

Laurie started after the stateroom assistant spoke, abruptly. For a moment, he'd thought the short, ugly, leather-faced sailor was talking to his grandfather.

"Mr. Laurence?" the man repeated, looking slightly perturbed.

Laurie turned, reaching up to anchor the broad-brim straw that law at an angle on top of his head. A good southwesterly puff had sent it tumbling before, and he didn't care to race down the deck after it again. "And my grandfather?" he asked with a touch of the haueter he'd picked up over the last few months.

"The elder Mr. Laurence has settled in his rooms some time ago, sir."

Laurie nodded, lips tight. This was the third time the man had come to inform him that his room was ready in the last hour. _How long have I been here? _Trying to assume some semblance of normality, he inhaled, turned. "I will be down directly."

The man hesitated, swaying on his feet as the ship creaked. Laurie felt a familiar lurching in his stomach; any sickness would be over by that evening, however, he knew. Old Mr. Laurence would be sick for some days yet, but Laurie always took well to the sea. "The deck will be closing shortly, sir. We sail--"

"I know very well when we sail." Laurie's voice was crisp, and sharper than he'd intended. "I needed air," he added in a moment to remedy that, speaking in a more congenial tone. "Please excuse me." turning on his heel, he left the deck and began the slow trek to his stateroom. His grandfather was in the next suite; and after checking to see if the old man was comfortable, he let himself inside his own room, opening the door slowly. It was quiet, cool, sanitary-white in that blunt, wooden, matter-of-fact way that most sea vessels take in direction as well as in decoration. He ran one hand over the coverlet of the little white bed, but no--- he wasn't tired. Instead, he sat in the hard wooden chair facing the old-fashioned secretary in the south corner, extending legs that were much too long for his present quarters.

Laurie glanced around at first, almost in a daze; then he reached into his inner pocket, pulling out a sheaf of letters that never left him, lately. They were smudged and wrinkled now, though the paper was thin and fine; and he opened one, eyes scanning it almost hungrily before he folded it up again.

"Poor Amy," he said in an aside, to himself; and he closed his dark eyes, leaning back against the hard head-rest on the chair. The ship was moving now, he could feel it; and the boy relaxed, soothed to sleep by the rocking of the waves, and an image in his head of a tall, slender golden-haired girl waving goodbye to him from a dock, till all that was left of her was a flutter of black ribbon, and a hint of scent that clung to him, even now.

'It's good that I left,' he thought, almost reluctantly; and that was his last thought before he fell asleep.

XXXXXXX

"Laurie. Laurie, my boy---"

At the sound of his grandfather's voice, Laurie came to rather quickly, blinking hard. His room was dim now, and he could make the vague outline of his grandfather, bending over a globe lamp. A sputter and a hiss, and the thing was lit. He sat up, rubbing his eyes briefly; then, he glanced up, meeting the old man's eyes. He looked surprisingly fit and healthy, considering they'd just boarded the ship. The elder Laurence usually succombed to sea-sickness; not today, apparently.

"I thought you'd be sleeping, sir," Laurie stammered, stumbling to his feet, and yanking at his clothing in vain; the smart boating suit was wrinkled beyond repair.

"It's dinner-time," Mr. Laurence said; and his eyes fixed on Laurie so intently that the latter blinked, then saw the letters on the small table, where he'd carelessly tossed them before he slept. Even from this distance, the fine, feminine hand was visible. He felt a hot flush cross his face, but his grandfather said, rather amicably:

"--- I wish you'd come to dinner with me, son. At my age one prattles on incessantly or frightens everyone into silence in social situations; besides, neither of us have eaten since we've boarded this damned clanking canoe."

A shadow of a smile crossed Laurie's face, and he stood, ignoring the letters. Let the old man make of them what he would, he thought rebelliously, and raised his chin.

Mr. Laurence recognized the gesture and hid a smile. "You'll want to change, of course," he said, somewhat brouqsely; then he headed for the door. "Wash your face, my boy. Ten minutes should be sufficient for you to attend to your toilet; I will be waiting for you there." With that, he was gone.

When the two were finally seated at a private table, served a first course of a hearty, creamy chowder, Mr. Laurence broke the silence first. "Decent fare," he commented.

"Indeed," Laurie agreed somewhat bleakly, lifting his spoon.

His grandfather paused and shifted to make himself more comfortable; then he fixed sharp, hooded eyes on the boy--- well, he couldn't very well be called a boy anymore, could he? The last two years had wrought subtle changes that it was near impossible to notice. He was a man now, one that was quite capable of hiding his emotions, as well. However--

"Theodore, what are your intentions?" the man said bluntly, dipping a bit of hard-crusted bread into his soup. "You left quite suddenly-- not that I minded, as I was ready to go myself--but I want to know why."

Laurie's lips tightened subtly. "Business," he said after a pause. "It's...time I made my own way, Grandfather. I can't do that abroad-- I have no intention of making a home there." Another pause. Then, "...Amy asked me to go, as well, as a favor, as she cannot." His voice softened then; and he glanced away, a bit of the shy boy he'd been coming back. "Jo is...very bad, she says."

"Jo." Mr. Laurence looked away, something in his eyes closing off subtly. He said nothing, but his face spoke volumes. He nearly dropped his fork when Laurie's voice cut through the air again, sharp and angry.

"Grandfather, do not think for a moment that I wish to recant my suit to her."

"Laurie, my boy, I do not presume--"

"With respect, you are, sir. And let me assure you--" here, Laurie inhaled before continuing-- "that I have no plans to do so. She just lost a sister, Grandfather--- and Amy can't get to her, so I must. By God, do you see me as so selfish as to only be thinking of my own happiness, now?"

"Well, now, Laurie--"

Laurie continued as if he hadn't heard a word, voice rising, growing harsher. "I go to comfort Jo, my... sister, Grandfather, nothing else. I wish to here nothing of romance or love or anything like for as long as---"

"Laurie!" His grandfather's voice cut in sharply, now. "Your voice. Mind the other guests."

Still heated, Laurie took in the curious glances-- then, bit his lip. "I apologize," he said; then looked down at his plate.

There was a long moment of silence before he spoke again; and when he did, his voice was low, quiet.

"I don't want to marry for some time, Grandfather," he said, quietly; and his voice rang with a honesty, an openness that had been absent earlier. "And when I do...not Jo..." _Or Amy, _he thought, but no one knew about that, save the two of them. "They are far too much for me," he added quietly, looking away. "And I'd care far too much."

Mr. Laurence inhaled, sensing the unspoken story. "Amy--"

"She sent me away," Laurie said bluntly; not even trying to hide it, anymore: and suddenly he looked much older, and tired, despite his European two-year respite. "I cannot win with either, Grandfather; they care for each other, and I won't be the one who breaks the tie. I'm not going to try."

"You underestimate yourself, my boy. They consider you family, you know."

Laurie shook his head, that troubled look still on his face; and Mr. Laurence thought it ten times worse than when the boy had come home that day, devastated after Jo had turned him down. The March girls...tight knit, like a peice of fine wool; and he'd never really belonged with them, had he? No matter how kind they'd been to him. This proved it, if nothing else. "No...I don't think so, sir. I will not speak of it again."


	3. Chapter 3

He was here for business, Laurie reminded himself as he made his way to the threshold of the March house. It was dusk now, and fast growing dim outside, but his feet still remembered the number of steps, the dips and the falls of a path that that had changed little over the past two years. Everything was the same, except for a curious bareness on a porch that had often bloomed with flowers, year-round. That, he thought with a sudden chill, spoke more for Beth's death than anything else. He inhaled sharply, wishing for a cigarette; then remembered Amy's disapproving look when last he'd smoked, and smiled despite himself.

"Bless the girl, what a torment she is," he said softly, remembering saying that about her sister, several months ago. Then, he lifted his hand to knock, biting his lip, stomach knotting despite himself. He'd never been good at this, except with Jo. And if he found her changed---

You're here to see her, to comfort her, Laurie thought sternly. Then, business, off to the duty of being himself, without the influence of his grandfather, of Amy, of Jo, of any of the Marches, for that matter--

Then why, some other part of his consciousness redemonstrated, was he standing in front of the March family home, hat pushed low over his forehead, grandfather dumped unceremoniously at their home without so much as changing his clothes? He was almost relieved when he was spared the work of answering the question, as the door opened.

It took Laurie almost a minute to recognize the figure in the doorway, it was so unexpected. He'd pictured what he would say to Jo, to Meg, to Mrs. March, to Mr. March, even, over and over, on the ship and on the way here—but the stooped, white-hooded little figure in the doorway made him start, then break out into the smile he hadn't shown to anyone for as long as he could remember.

"Hannah?" he said, extending his arms; and his voice cracked once, so boyishly that he began to laugh at himself before the poor woman could even answer. She'd obviously been doing the washing-up, since her hands were covered with soap, and she was frantically wiping them on her apron. "Don't say you don't remember me now, it hasn't been that long—"

"Why, it's Mist'---" the old servant began, but she was soon cut off, swept into a hearty, if rather inappropriate embrace by her former neighbor. "Mist' Laurie!" she scolded, but it was no use; her blows to the broad shoulders of the man in front of her were as ineffectual as a gnat's, and they were both laughing by the time he let her go.

"Saints above, you've not changed a whit," Hannah cried, pulling her cap off her head and backing up, extending a soap-covered hand as if to ward off future attacks. She wrung the poor little cap until it was nearly unrecognizable. "If I known it was you, I'd have brought the wooden spoon—"

"I'm far too big to feel your blows now, Hannah, so I come unafraid," he cried, flashing his teeth in his old endearing manner. It was true; despite weight he'd lost on the voyage, Laurie was still as much a 'young giant,' as he was when Aunt March had christened him so, years ago at Meg's wedding. "Where is everyone?" he added, dark eyes surveying the entryway.

"Wipe yo' feet," Hannah ordered, pointing to the mat with her ruined cap, as much in her element than ever. Touching reunions were only meant to be had _after _any danger to her rugs had been averted, and that was how the good Lord intended it, and that was all. "An' let me take your coat, young Laurence, there—"

"It's good to hear you say those words again," Laurie said, smiling slightly now as he surrendered his things. "And where is everyone, Hannah?"

Her face darkened momentarily. "The church, dearie. Leaving flowers for Beth."

Beth. His face sobered as well, and he looked away, only to be brought back when Hannah touched his arm, gently. "Have a sit in your old place," she said, quietly. "It's just as you left it, and they'll be back soon. Tea?"

He shook his head, then bent and kissed the grey head that barely reached his shoulder, an impulsive little gesture that served to hide some sudden moisture in his eyes, more than anything else. She patted him on the back, made her way down the hall with that queer shuffling gait of the aged; and Laurie was left to his own devices.

He hesitated on the stairs before making his way to the old garret; the house had changed since he'd been there last, and not just physically. I'm not part of this any more, he thought with a sudden pang; but he overcame the feeling when his feet started moving, and he was upstairs in what seemed like an instant, remembering to duck before making his way through the low doorway. The air in the room was musty, and smelled vaguely of dried flowers and ink. The little old horsehair pillow was in its old place, he saw—and his mouth curved up slightly as his eyes fell on a figure beside it, head bent low to the arm of the chair as if exhausted.

Slipping his hands into his pockets, he tilted his dark head and spoke.

"It's lying flat, Jo; don't mean to tell me you're keeping me from my old place, dear."

The small head snapped up, and Laruie's mouth went dry as he met the eyes he hadn't looked into for over a year. He hadn't time to reflect on it though—why she was here and the others weren't, or why he'd known instinctively that it was she, because Jo leaped up, threw her arms around his neck, held him tightly, and with a sob—

"Blessed boy—what—where--- how----"

"Jo, dearest," he said softly; and to his surprise, his voice was husky. "Yes, I'm here now."

XXXXXxxxXXXXX

Laurie, with a pang of guilt he hadn't felt since he'd been abroad, knew he would receive a stern talking-to from his grandfather when he returned home for the night, and he knew it would be with good reason, too. It was well past what his old tutor would call a 'decent hour,' and he and Jo hadn't even covered half of what he felt they wanted to say. He was sitting up in the garret with her now, talking quietly over the remains of a spread of olives, bread, biscuits and butter Marmee had brought up hours ago. Jo had lit a fire, and it now cast a cozy glow over the whole room, illuminating her face and long, lean, frame. When she saw him looking, she smiled and stretched, much like a cat.

"I should put you out, really," she said dryly, a hint of her old sprit returning as she looked at him with more than a touch of mischief. "It's far too late for you to be here, Laurie; when we were children it was fine, but we have to play propriety now," and she grimaced, as of the thought held little appeal for her.

Laurie laughed softly, looking down at his hands. They were splayed comfortably on his knees, and his whole frame was relaxed, now. More so than it had been in months. "You're right," he admitted—and raked his fingers through his hair, letting it all stand on end. Jo's eyes followed the movement, looking hungry and almost sad, but then she said quickly, cheerily---

"I see you've kept your hair long, for which I'm heartily thankful. I wasn't expecting a Dorian Gray, mind you, but I braced myself for a dandy."

Laurie's mouth curved up slightly. "Don't give your boy praise that's not due him, Josephine," he said, mockingly—then grinned and ducked the pillow, grabbing it and holding it to his chest to discourage future attacks. "I….was for a while, I'll admit," he continued, eyes suddenly downcast. "After…everything that happened here."

Jo's cheeks warmed, and she looked away. "Laurie—"

"No, it's fine." Laurie reached for her hand, then thought better of it and leaned backward, instead. "Your sister straightened me out," he added, trying to lighten the mood. "By Jove, what a lecture the child gave me at Nice! A regular rouser."

"Amy?" Jo raised a brow, amused as well as surprised.

"Yes, little Amy." His voice quieted somewhat, and he found himself unable to meet Jo's eyes, for a moment. "I'm wrong to call her a child, not that she'd mind as much now….but she's quite the woman, actually. You'll hardly know her." He paused and when Jo said nothing, continued. "I don't know if it's the European sensibility or what, but she…she's grown up. Led me around by the nose, practically. And she does it so prettily you only want to obey her every command."

When Laurie finished his speech, he was a bit out of breath, and the surprised look his companion gave him made him flush automatically, despite himself. "As you see, she's quite captivated me," he said lightly, still unable to meet Jo's eyes, feeling his old bashfulness return. "And half of Europe, as well. She has a Count panting at her heels now, you know." A plague on him, he added silently.

"Indeed?" Jo arched a brow.

"Yes." Faintly aware that he was digging his own grave conversationally, Laurie forged ahead as manfully as he could. "Met the little fellow at a ball in Nice."

"And then there's Fred Vaughn," Jo remembered, tilting her chin, interested in the conversation as she was in the fact that her companion suddenly looked quite uncomfortable.

"Yes. Fred." Laurie bit his lip; it was obvious that Amy hadn't written her family since things had changed between them. "Well. She refused him," he finished weakly.

Jo's dark eyes widened. "He proposed?"

"Yes." Laurie shifted in his seat, suddenly wishing he'd worn a shirt and trousers instead of the full dress-suit he'd donned that morning. The garret, which had been cosy up until that point, suddenly seemed far too warm.

"She seemed rather keen on him, before."

"Um," Laurie said rather noncommittally, trying to ignore the knot deep somewhere in his stomach. Why, he thought, was talking about Amy so hard, when it was Jo he'd been nervous to see?

Jo eyed her prisoner, watching as he wrapped himself around a stale piece of bread-and-butter. She waited until he'd placed two olives in his mouth before asking casually, "How long were you in Nice?"

He choked a bit, trying to swallow. "Well….can't say exactly. Time in Europe seems to go away during the summer months."

"And you were there twice?"

"Yes."

"And when you returned Amy decided to refuse Fred."

Laurie made a face at her in an attempt to make a joke of things. "If you intend to play inquisitor and ask questions all afternoon, Jo, I'll go home. Or better yet, I'll go to Meg's; she does it ever so much better than you."

Jo laughed, and extended her long, thin hands, gripping his with a gentleness he'd missed so much. "Don't go! I fancied for a minute that the two of you had gotten into some mischief, and I wanted to tease you about it. You and Amy would suit very well, I actually used to think."

"Jo…." Laurie said warningly, though he couldn't meet her eyes.

"Better than you and I, at any rate." Jo's voice was quiet now, and his gaze darted up, meeting hers quickly. The eyes were downcast; the cheeks were flushed. Instead of letting go her hands, he bit his lip and drew her close—and for once, she didn't object. She needed to feel a closeness to someone that bypassed all ordinary propriety, now.

"I'm sorry," he said after a moment, his voice very quiet in the garret, competing only with the crackling in the hearth. He rested his chin on her head.

"Don't think for a minute that I want you to propose again—heavens, that's not it, but---" a sniff caught her off, despite her trying to keep a brave face.

Laurie swallowed hard; ignored the comment. "You've been lonely, dearest;" he said tenderly, feeling her pain almost as if is was his own. As a boy he'd often been lonely, as an adult even more so; and he knew it was one of the worst feelings in the world. "I'm sorry I went away."

"I'm not," said Jo so decidedly he had to smile.

"I know," he said quietly, after a beat, but he didn't release her and she didn't try to get away. She was starved for love, he knew, but wasn't sure if he could give it to her. He could try, of course, but would she feel taken care of, or instead feel she always had to watch over _him?_

I can't think about this now, he thought, and shifted. Jo felt the change and pulled back. Her eyes were wet, but there were no tears on her cheeks. "I'm glad you're home, Teddy."

His lips twitched upwards slightly, but he didn't reply. Instead, he leaned in, kissed her on the forehead, both cheeks, and stood up.

Jo glanced down at her hands. "See you soon?"

He nodded, turned, and left.


	4. Chapter 4

It took Laurie nearly a week before, with his characteristic stubbornness, he would admit he was avoiding Jo.

The big windows of the March house seemed to reprove him every time he caught a glimpse of them; and time after time, he found himself reverting to his old habit of 'peeping' through his own muslin curtains, feeling much like the bashful boy of yesteryear, longing for a bit of fun.

The windows framed no tender familial tableau, however; in fact, they tugged at his heart more than did him good. The March house was still in mourning for poor Beth, and evidence of that was there; Laurie often saw Mr. March, staring aimlessly at the corner in which the little piano still sat, his face wan and gray in the firelight; at some of those times, his wife often came in, leaned over him, pressed her faded cheek to his own, placed thin hands on his shoulders. They looked like two mournful statues in their own little Pantheon of grief; he hesitated to disturb them, and always shut the blinds when the scenes reached such intimacy.

Beth's absence had left a void in the spirit of the neighborhood; everybody missed her. His own home was as cold and as dark as he'd left it, and the great Laurence piano was still locked up, tenderly dusted each day by the hands of servants that remembered the little one well.

And Jo…?

Where _was _Jo?

Despite his avoidance, he _was_ looking for her—and from what he could surmise, she had not left the house. On his part, he thought with some contrition, he was doing little to keep his promise to Amy, except for that afternoon he'd held her so closely…and been frightened at what he felt.

'You must go home to her…she needs you.' He colored slightly as he remembered the words, and the resignation in Amy's face as she'd said them. Dear Amy…she had sacrificed, hadn't she? And only so he could sit here and—

"You're a selfish, stubborn brute," he said aloud in his study, interrupting his own thoughts, and slammed his ledger shut with a bang that echoed in the room. He stalked to his own chambers, attended to his toilet with a vigorous application of cold water and clean linen, and dressed, heading back to his library for the great-coat hanging on the hook. He hesitated at his desk; then, he grabbed the offending ledger, tucked it under his arm and headed for next door. If anything else, he muttered grimly, he would work and watch her at the same time.

"It shan't be uncomfortable, I won't let it," Laurie added under his breath; then he knocked the door and instantly regretted it. He hadn't knocked the door in years, save for his first day back. Things were already too formal, too stilled.

Mr. March answered the door, another unusual thing; and the look the man gave him made Laurie all the more uneasy. It was not one of suspicion, _per se_, but merely grave curiosity; he'd aged, Laurie noted as he dragged off his hat. "Good day, sir."

"Hello, son," Mr. March said simply. If his voice did not have the same paternal timbre as his wife usually did, it did not lack in amiability. "I expect you're here to see my daughter...well, come in, come in."

Laurie relaxed a bit as he was hustled into the hall, and bereft of his hat and coat. The house, though impeccable, warm, and fragrant with the scent of baking bread, seemed deserted, and he said so. Mr. March hastened to explain.

"Mrs. March has gone out-- speaks of purchasing marmalade, or olives, or some such vulgarity; Hannah's gone to the Hummels' for a bit, so I am left here alone to guard the kitchen," he announced, steering Laurie towards the room. "You will take a bit of bread, yes?"

Laurie opened his mouth to refuse, but the older gentleman was shuffling across the floor with amazing speed, pushing the door to the kitchen open with his cane. Three crusty loaves lay on the table, wrapped in the snow-white towels that were Hannah's trademark, two more baked the oven, browning nicely, and the tea-kettle was whistling merrily.

"Nectar of the gods," Mr. March remarked with a bit of a smile as he took the tea-tin down and nodded to the cupboard. "and I've missed Hannah's bread-- on the field we used to roast brown-flour and water on a stick, and call that biscuits. Make yourself useful, son, the cups are—"

Laurie knew the kitchen better than Mr. March, however; and soon, both men were seated in front of steaming cups of herbal brew, along with large, crusty slices of Hannah's good sourdough. As predicted, there was no marmalade; but Mr. March produced butter and honey, and spread both liberally on his piece of bread before biting into it contentedly.

"Thoreau called it an ancient law, you know, the flocking of bees to their queen," Mr. March remarked mildly. He did not seem to expect an answer, and it was perhaps for the best, for Laurie, feeling remarkably less than bright, could only summon up the following---

"Oh—indeed?"

Mr. March nodded, and the two spent several minutes in somewhat of a companionable silence. Laurie shifted once, fiddling with the towel the bread had been wrapped in, scattering crumbs; then—

"Is Jo at home, sir?"

"I thought that was what you were aiming at," Mr. March replied, dipping the hard brown crust on the edge of his bread into his tea and sighing with contentment as the gruel went down. "She is in her room, of course. Her writing room, that is to say."

Laurie had never heard the garret referred to as such, and he didn't know if he liked it. "Thank you…I believe…" he paused, trying to find some elegant way to request to see Jo without actually requesting. "I'm here to see her, sir," he finally said with his usual frankness. "If you will excuse me—"

Mr. March's face broke into one of his rare smiles. "Yes, yes, son, I know. Of course. I just—pray, wait for a moment—" and he waved Laurie back to his seat. "I actually wanted a favor."

"Anything, sir," Laurie said, surprised.

"Today is…" he looked away, and for an instant his eyes took on a distant look. "It's Beth. It has been four months, today---"

Laurie felt a familiar clenching within him; the first wrench he'd had when he'd heard the news, so far away in Europe. "I'm sorry, I had forgotten—"

Mr. March waved the comment away, wearily. "It is of little matter, you could not be expected to know. It's Jo I speak of." He paused. "She's been very bad since last-night, lad. Her mother tries, but must see to her own grief, and I—" here the man paused, reaching for a pocket-handkerchief, flicking Laurie's crumbs from the table-cloth, speaking steadily. "I am her father, but I may not be the best to speak to her at this point. I've seen death, son--- seen it in every way imaginable--- and I cannot help but feel thankful Beth's suffering was eased, despite the fact that I miss her dearly."

"What can I do?" Laurie asked, surprised at how steady his own voice was.

The older man's mouth tipped up, slightly. "I know your history with my daughter, young Lawrence. Put that aside and comfort her." When Laurie said nothing, he continued. "Jo has carried a load no one should carry alone…and I'm afraid we've allowed it."

Amy had said the same, Laurie realized, suddenly uncomfortable. The older man was staring at him now with a mixture of compassion and pity that rankled Laurie; in an instant, he shot to his feet, picked up his ledger and exited the kitchen, inhaling as if he'd just run a marathon.

Had his emotions for Jo always been so naked on his face, whatever they were? First Amy had seen them, now…

Laurie considered leaving, but even his hat and coat seemed to stare at him reproachfully. He rubbed his hand over his eyes, tiredly. Mr. March had not emerged from the kitchen, and there was still no sign of life in the house, but…

Suddenly an idea came to Laurie, small but insistent; and he headed into the dark parlor, lighted the lamp, walked to Beth's old place at the small upright, and unlocked the instrument.

The stool was high, much too high for him, as if it hadn't been touched since its owner had died; and Laurie realized that was probably true. He twirled it reverently for a moment before adjusting it, settling down and extending his legs. He tested the pedals gingerly, as if expecting it to fall apart; then tenderly, he touched the keys.

Laurie's first intention was to play Beth's favorite tunes, her nursery songs, her hymns; but as his fingers slipped over the keys, the melody turned into far more than a tribute to the instrument's gentle owner. It grew more intricate, the notes advancing, retreating, weaving into each other with a power, a strength he didn't know he possessed. He played bits of his discarded opera, waltzes he danced to with Amy in Europe, tender love songs they'd heard in the streets of Nice....

At last, Laurie wove seamlessly into a tune he only vaguely remembered, the same one from Meg's wedding, when he and his sisters—so they were to him then—had joined hands and danced about the bride and groom. He played slowly, languidly, leaving no note to change; images flooded his mind as he did. There was Meg, flushed and soft and welcoming with love given and received; Jo, prickly, grim, and still somehow more womanly than he'd ever seen her; Beth, timid yet aglow with happiness; and…Amy. Little Amy, yellow head held at a coquettish angle, proud and lovely, on the verge of becoming the woman he'd been fascinated by these few months….

Amy. His fingers faltered, and the piece ended on a broken chord. He sat in silence for a moment, breathing heavily and noticing a sudden ache in his fingers; how long had he played? Then---

"Laurie?"

It was Jo's voice, as vulnerable as ever he'd heard it, husky with tears; he turned slowly, seeing her standing in the doorway. He tried to smile, but was unsuccessful- manfully, he checked tears of his own before he spoke.

"I'm sorry, Jo," he said, quietly. "I've stayed away. Will you forgive me, my dear fellow?"

The smile she gave him was like the sun breaking over the horizon.

******

The pair did not cry this time; they did not allow themselves to sink into the despair that had punctuated their first meeting. Instead, Laurie did his best to act normal—and so did Jo. A minor rummage in the kitchen produced more bread and honey, this time with cheese, grapes and other little sides, and the pair mounted the stairs to the garret with lighter hearts.

"Whatever were you doing up there, Jo?" Laurie asked, obediently taking the bundle of food from her as she banged the door open with her old decided gesture. For the first time, he noticed she wore her now dilapidated "scribble suit," from years ago; it hung loose on her thinner frame, but the red bow on the cap was as erect and bright as ever, mirroring the spirit of its owner. "Writing, I expect…" he answered his own question, and she smiled. "Is it safe?" he added jocularly. "Or will I be attacked with a pillow again?"

"Heavens, yes, come in, I wouldn't think of throwing you out now, especially after that little concert-- goodness, I've missed your music, Laurie. Sit there— " she pointed to a rag-bag in the corner and took the old horsehair sofa for herself. "I'd offer the sofa, but at our last meeting, we got rather too close for comfort; you've gotten bigger, sir, especially in the shoulders," and Jo looked him over with that same critical eye, although her expression plainly betrayed she admired what she saw.

"French air," Laurie said, and put out his tongue good-naturedly.

"French bon-bons are more the like," returned Jo; and she smiled. It was a rusty smile, tense from weeks of disuse, but her eyes were happy. Laurie settled himself onto the sack, then frowned when he heard a rustle of paper; he pulled out a sheaf, crumpled at the edges and blotted worse than Amy's old tablets. "Jo, what on earth—"

The change in Jo when she saw the papers was extraordinary; she blushed a dark crimson, sprang to her feet, and hurried across the room to relieve Laurie of them. He anticipated this move and held them over his head.

"Secrets, Josephine?" he asked, teasingly, though he didn't look at them. They hadn't kept anything from each other then, but…this was now.

"Oh—don't start!" Jo grunted, reached; and when she failed, sat in a heap on the floor, her skirts ballooning out around her. "Very well, have your fun, insufferable boy. It's just some bad poetry I was writing, while having a cry on the rag-bag before—before you came. It's not finished, it just—"

"Do you want them, or are they destined for the rubbish-bin?" Laurie queried, smoothing out the poor abused pages with a gentle hand.

"Oh, I don't---read them if you'd like," and Jo inhaled, turning her back and beginning to lay out the spread of food they'd brought with them. Laurie's eyes fell on the first page, skimming the first few lines; then his countenance changed from merry and teasing to soft, and a hint of a smile curved his mouth. Jo, who'd been watching him from the corner of her eye, saw the change and spoke.

"As I said, it's very bad, but---"

Laurie shook his head, reaching for his forgotten business-ledger and resting the pages on them. After a moment, he inhaled and began to read, his voice clear and strong in the small space.

"Four little chests all in a row,

Dim with dust, and worn by time,

All fashioned and filled, long ago,

By children now in their prime.

Four little keys hung side by side,

With faded ribbons, brave and gay

When fastened there, with childish pride,

Long ago, on a rainy day.

Four little names, one on each lid,

Carved out by a boyish hand,

And underneath there lieth hid

Histories of the happy band

Once playing here, and pausing oft

To hear the sweet refrain,

That came and went on the roof aloft,

In the falling summer rain…"

His voice was quiet, but took on a lyrical tone, breathing life into the words, along with that touch of music he seemed to loan to everything. Jo was silent, looking down; and when Laurie's black eyes met hers, something in her stomach turned over. He smiled, imperceptibly.

"I carved those names into the lids for Marmee."

"Yes."

Almost reverently, lost in his own thoughts, Laurie turned over the page, and after a moment began to read again, smiling in certain places. it was harder now, for his vision was blurry, though he would not own why—

" 'Meg' on the first lid, smooth and fair.

I look in with loving eyes,

For folded here, with well-known care,

A goodly gathering lies,

The record of a peaceful life--

Gifts to gentle child and girl,

A bridal gown, lines to a wife,

A tiny shoe, a baby curl.

No toys in this first chest remain,

For all are carried away,

In their old age, to join again

In another small Meg's play.

Ah, happy mother! Well I know

You hear, like a sweet refrain,

Lullabies ever soft and low

In the falling summer rain."

A pause now; the rustling of more pages. Then Laurie shifted, and Jo was uncomfortable again, as his voice had taken on a directly more intimate timbre.

" 'Jo' on the next lid, scratched and worn,

And within a motley store

Of headless dolls, of schoolbooks torn,

Birds and beasts that speak no more,

Spoils brought home from the fairy ground

Only trod by youthful feet,

Dreams of a future never found,

Memories of a past still sweet,

Half-writ poems, stories wild,

April letters, warm and cold,

Diaries of a wilful child--- '"

"Don't!" Jo suddenly said, as if the next lines were far too personal to be read aloud. Laurie looked up, his mouth flattening slightly, and when Jo said no more, he continued to read, till it ended on the page;

"Hints of a woman early old,

A woman in a lonely home,

Hearing, like a sad refrain—"

Silenced reigned for a full moment; Jo was staring fixedly at the wall. Laurie sighed. "Oh, Jo—"

"Don't, Laurie."

He didn't. "It's not finished," he said after a moment, folding the page over.

"No." Jo shook her head. "Beth and Amy's verses are done, but I can't seem to find an ending for mine...I'm being melodramatic, I suppose. But that is how I felt before you came over."

"A woman in a lonely home…Hearing, like a sad refrain…" Laurie was ignoring her, mouthing the words softly to himself, lost in his own world; he was sentimental by nature, of course, with his natural tendencies and his Italian blood; but this…this was what her heart had been crying for all these months, lying here, naked on the page---

And suddenly, he had it. Taking a pen from his pocket, he scribbled something down on the page, his boxy, masculine hand looking rather queer next to Jo's business-like script; silently, he handed it to her, biting his lip. "Read it."

A moment; and Jo did, eyes filling suddenly with unwonted tears.

"---be worthy love, and love will come."

"You have to believe that, Jo," Laurie said earnestly; and more than a little embarrassed at his own show of emotion, he cleared his throat. "I do. It may not be…well, it's coming, Jo."

Jo moved from one foot to the other, still unable to meet his eyes. "You're quite the poet, Laurie."

"I am _not_," he said uncomfortably, looking for some way—any way! – out of this. "Well, now I must read the rest," he said, forcing cheer into his tone, "and perhaps even write more verses, who knows, and you, Madam—" here, a glint appeared in his eye, and he pulled his ledger out of his lap, tossing it across the room. She caught it reflexively.

"….you can do my figures."


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** Louisa May Alcott owns her own characters, I am making no money for this little fic. Pierre Renoir DID exist in real life and was a young artist in Paris at this time, but none of the events depicted in this chapter ever happened, save for a few of the places he was known to hang in. Enjoy.

In the weeks since Laurie left, both Mrs. Carol and Aunt March were quite amazed at the transformation in Amy.

She was too distressed to assume her usual hauteur, and she hid her melancholy rather badly. As Aunt March's health improved, poor Amy seemed to wilt; she was the old lady's nurse all day, and grew so pale and listless that Aunt March, fearing a repeat of Beth, ordered the girl outside to "take in some sun," placating her with gifts of new sketchpads and oils, and tempting her with introductions to noted artists in the area. Amy accepted those small gifts gratefully but without much enthusiasm; in private, aunt March threw up her hands and declared to Mrs. Carol that the girl must have been jilted, or worse.

"Only thing that could have happened, the boy left so suddenly-- my nieces can't seem to hold on to any decent suitor, hey now--?"

Mrs. Carol was a little more tactful; she ignored the comment and mildly suggested that as Aunt March was obviously better, a change in scenery might be beneficial. France was lovely this time of year, and they would sail home from a Paris dock, would they not?

The older woman leaped at the suggestion, and Amy found herself packed off to Paris with half-blind old spinster maid, Betsy, as chaperon (Flo was visiting with friends in Rome) and instructions to "air out" the house; her aunt and Mrs. Carol would follow in a week.

The train journey was blessedly quiet, punctuated only by the quiet chatter of passengers and her chaperon's snoring; and Amy could think for the first time in what seemed like years, taking out one of the new sketchpads and absent-mindedly doodling in the margins. the rolling landscape produced soothing images for some time, but flashed across the window at such a pace that her vision soon grew blurry, and a headache followed. Amy rested her head on a chair, closed her eyes; and her cheeks were cooled with a few natural tears.

She hadn't heard from Laurie; not even once, and that troubled her more than she felt it should; after all was she not the one who had sent him away? She had been anxious at first, thinking him not arrived safely, but a letter from her mother mentioned him and put those fears to rest. Then she felt angry for the lack of communication; and justifiably so, she thought, even allowing herself the indulgence of a good cry. She grieved for Beth, she grieved at the thought that Laurie did not love her, not really; and she was homesick, more than she could have ever imagined. Laurie had alleviated that for a time, she had been happy with him-- but he was gone now, by her own hand.

She loved Laurie dearly, so much that it physically ached; she knew this now. It weighed quiet yet inexplicably heavily on her heart, and in a flash she wished she was the same cool, reserved, worldly girl that had come to Europe, determined to make her own fortunes turn and nothing else.

"Whatever happened to my prudence?" she asked herself with a sigh; and it was true. Apparently, in spite of her former detachment, she was made of the same stuff as any young woman, flittering away in love, losing her heart to a handsome face and tender manner. She'd allowed herself to taste of the fruit, to be tempted; and like her ancestor Eve, wanted all the knowledge of what it was. She despised herself for this, now.

Oh, that she could turn her feelings off as easily as she shut her sketch-book!

The two arrived in Paris at dusk, and Amy was grateful that there was much to do to ready Mrs. Carol's villa for their arrival. She ignored her new wardrobe of Parisian gowns and instead donned a black cotton pinafore, protected the white hands with thick garden gloves, and threw herself into work-- perhaps if her body was exercised, she thought, her mind might stop for a bit. she dusted, aired blankets that reeked of moth-balls, and cleaned alongside the scandalized maids with an energy that would have shocked her mother and quite horrified her genteel aunt.

'Can't allow myself to think too much,' she admonished herself again; and indeed, she didn't; however, she grew thinner than ever, crept about the house at strange hours because she couldn't sleep, started and blushed whenever a dark-haired man passed the window, and made the maids live in perpetual fear of her sharp tongue. Her practical nature, however, finally overcame her queer behavior.

"I disgust myself," she said about a week after she arrived, staring at her reflection in the mirror; "I look like an old hag, I'm mooning about without being useful to anyone, and I'm terrifying everyone I come in contact with, I dare say. I must go out today…I _will _go out today." the weather was warm, birds trilled in the trees, and the thought of fresh air and a long walk was seductive to our self-imposed invalid, to say in the least.

With that, she nodded her head determinedly, changed her house-dress for a simple frock of rosy Swiss-dot muslin. It was the first time she had worn colors since Beth's death; and she, with a prickling of her old vanity, was rather satisfied at her reflection in the mirror. The frock lent color to her cheeks and her eyes looked vibrantly blue; cherry-colored ribbons held her curls at a coquettish angle. She was still too thin, of course, but the delicate bones in her face and hands were _so _nymph like. Amy took a final look in the mirror; then, she laughed aloud at her own foolishness, picked up her sketch-book, and headed out with a determined stride.

Like most artists in France, Amy was instantly drawn to the Seine; it had changed little since she was there last, and looked cool and inviting, the sun glimmering off the surface of the water, reflecting bursts of color in what seemed like open air. Many young daubers in their multi-colored smocks cluttered the bank with their easels; children picnicking with their nurses ran about, shouting, poking frogs, making grass and daisy chains.

Amy avoided such company, wanting to be alone; and when she found a cool, shaded spot that housed only a couple of people painting silently, she sank onto the grass with a little sigh of relief and began to go through her work. She shook her head at some pieces, smiled ruefully at others, paused at some with a tenderness that quite transformed her face. Then, her gaze fell on the picture that had started it all between she and Laurie; and unbidden, pain flashed across her featured for a moment.

She had no idea of the pretty picture she made, sitting on the bank with that troubled look on her face; the skirts of her dress fluttered in the wind in a most artistic manner; her hair followed suit, tendrils coming loose round her face and white forehead. It seemed only natural that any warm-blooded young male would want to come to the rescue of this lovely damsel with such distress, and it happened quickly.

"_Salut, mademoiselle_."

Amy started violently and looked up. The intruding voice came from one of her neighbors, a young man who was dressed, rather urchin-like, in a pair of trousers and a shirt dirtied with paint and grass stains. His craggy, bony face was half-covered in a scraggly beard and streaks of paint; his dark brown eyes were lively, however, and Amy felt no fear.

"Do I know you, sir?" she said rather icily, forgetting her French. He grinned at her and to her horror, she almost smiled back.

"American," he said with some surprise. "_Parlez-vous francias_?"

It was on the tip of Amy's tongue to "_Je ne parle pas_" him and send him on his way with a cutting remark. But her eye fell on his painting; it was of the Seine River, obviously at sunrise; the brush-strokes were harsh and obvious, the light varied in a manner so surreal it made her blink in wonder, and the water was....

"Orange?" she said in surprise, lifting her eyebrows.

The strange little man followed her gaze and began to smile.

"_Que veut...dire_ ..?" Amy asked hesitantly, not understanding what the painting was about, the artist in her winning over the haughty young lady.

To her surprise, he laughed; at first she thought it was at her French, but after wiping his eyes he explained, looking rather sheepish. "No more...paint. No _bleu_," he added in his funny broken English, indicating his near-empty palette. "_C'est très cher!...fermeture? C'est trop cher!"_

Amy had to laugh at this; she, too, had been shocked by the prices of oil paint in Paris. "_Y a t'il une couleur différente_?" she asked. "Perhaps...green?"

At that, her companion launched into quite the explanation, waving his arms and speaking in a funny mix of French and English that left them both laughing; He, the man said, was very obliged to mademoiselle for her input; but the orange was so much more suggestive of sunrise, didn't she see, _je comprends_? Every stroke of the brush was a ray of light.

Amy did see, and she agreed heartily. "It's beautiful," she said simply, walking towards it to get a better look. "_Tres jolie_," she added quickly when the man looked confused; then he smiled and nodded.

"_Merci_, Mademoiselle...?" he looked at her questioningly, trailing off and lifting a heavy brow.

"Amiee," she replied, using the French pronunciation.

If he was surprised at her lack of a surname, he did not show it. "Pierre Renoir," he said in return; and the two shook hands. Why, he was no more than a boy, Amy thought, despite the beard he looks quite young.

"You must...eh.." He paused, struggling for the words. "You must forgive me, mademoiselle, but...._Pouvez-vous m'aider s'il vous plaît_?" he asked in a rush; Amy had to ask him to repeat himself before she could decipher his French.

"You want _me_ to help you?" Amy asked.

"Yes. I must...say I saw you and..._je ne fais que regarder_ before, mademoiselle, and you are lovely. I would like your figure. For dis--" and he gestured towards a blank part of the canvas. "In your frock, _tres jolie_...splendid..."

It was at the tip of Amy's tongue to refuse; as much as she liked sketching people, her modesty made her shy away from having her figure scrutinized so closely. But she liked something in the young man's face, felt sympathy for him as an artist, despite his lack of elegance; and finally agreed under the condition that she could use him as well. His thin, hawkish face fascinated her.

Pierre produced a linen rag and stump of pencil from his smock and began to scribble; Amy did the same in her gilt-bound sketchbook. They spoke little at first, for Amy's French was nearly as bad as his English.

He broke the silence; after eying her carefully, he asked in French, if mademoiselle would be so kind as to not take offense at his prying, what bothered her? She had looked miserable when he began watching her.

"_Plus lentement, s'il vous plait_," Amy said softly. She understood him perfectly of course, but needed a moment to quiet herself; his sympathy was too much, too much. The sun was beating down heavily now, but she barely noticed. Instead, she met her companion's eyes steadily as he repeated himself, and then she said---

"_Je suis désolé_...I have nothing to tell."

Pierre seemed to accept this, turning back to his sketch; and Amy, after an internal sigh, pushed hers away. She had lost all desire to draw.

"You vil come with me," Pierre suddenly exclaimed, jumping to his feet as nimbly as a child, taking Amy's hand and pulling her up as easily if she were a child.

"_Pourquoi_?" Amy managed to sputter, as Pierre was trotting away at a very fast pace. She lifted her petticoats as she hadn't done since she was a teen-ager and fought to maintain her usual grace.

"_Vous paraissez triste_...sad. So I make you smile," he said, leading them across a busy avenue, weaving around buggies and omnibuses in a manner that left them both followed by French obscenities-- and some English, too. "You are an artist, _oui_?"

"Yes," Amy replied, still befuddled.

"Then come, mademoiselle."

***********

Two days later, Amy crept back to the villa, exhausted, dirty and more disheveled than she'd ever been as a child, but with a pleased glow in her face that illuminated it, bringing back her rare loveliness. Her now ever-present sketchbook was tucked tightly under one arm; her whole countenance was lit up.

What she had seen these past days--!

It had been foolish, she supposed, to meet Pierre early in the morning, go around Paris with him all day in the rapidly darkening twilight, not once but _three_ times without an escort. However, the wonders she'd seen in this brief period were such that her head was still spinning when she left Pierre for the third time that week, making the long walk home that she now knew so well. It had become a tradition of sorts; she met Pierre early in the morning, and he took her somewhere new every day, trotting her round the city like the best of tour guides.

'How could I have been in Europe all this time and seen nothing like this?' she thought, for Pierre had taken her to the Louvre to see some of the world's greatest masterpieces-- and then to the heart of Paris in a small, bohemian market-place-like residence, where many of his artist friends lived; and in the midst of these squalid, gypsy-like people, Amy saw talent that far surpassed anything she'd ever seen. All her months in Europe had been spent in the company of 'gentle-born,' people; she had never seen the like of these lusty, life-filled creatures.

In this society, she was quick to learn, men and women congregated openly, some rich, some poor, sharing everything they had freely, whether it be money, clothes or food; they lived together, smoked in public, drank wine at the Café Guerbois in the mornign while they chatted about thier art, painted by the Seine and at that old, beautiful bathhouse La Grenouillère in the afternoons; spoke French and English in a mixture of accents that pinned their origins from Scottish to English to Italian to fine old English names to unknown bloodlines; and lived in a world where art mattered the most. Every class, it seemed, was represented here. this world, it seemed, was as seductive as it was strange.

For the most part they were a happy, healthy group doing what they loved most; and Amy could easily see any of them becoming the next great icon that the art world waited for, breathless. Pierre Renior himself was a marvel; his pieces sparkled with color and light, and seemed to have a spirit all their own. She had never seen anything like them, and she told him so.

"I fear I have no such commitment to my own art," Amy confessed to Pierre on the third day of their acquaintance; now that they were among others, they found a translator in a jolly little Englishman who had left his estate in the hands of his brother to pursue sculpture. Pierre, in a decidedly big-brother fashion, had heard all about Laurie already, as well as her sisters; and normally very private Amy was surprised that she'd given up that information so readily. "I am a bit of a snob...if I'm not the greatest, I prefer to abstain from trying," she added ruefully. 'It's ot a trait I'm proud of."

Pierre patted her hand comfortingly. "You have other things on your mind...trust your heart, _mon chou _Aimee."

"I'm a cabbage now?" Amy said, laughing; and the two kissed tenderly, French-fashion, before parting. "I feel as if I've known you for years, Pierre."

"I as well, _cherie_. Remember...the heart."

Amy nodded, sighed; the day was drawing to a close; her heart was full, and she had much to think about. After saying her farewells and promising Pierre to finish sitting for him the next day, she headed home.

The world was so much larger than Marmee's parlor, she realized now, flinging her skirts over an arm in order to free her movement, stretching out her legs so she could run unhindered. It would be all right; in the shapeless pinafore she wore over her dress, her Diana-like figure was hidden completely; she looked more like a little girl than anything else. Her skirts were dirty, dusty, splotched with paint and water; and she now longed for a hot bath more than anything. Thinking of that, she moved gracefully over the lawn and up the walk, hair flowing behind her in a sunshine-colored silken stream. She rarely ran, as she felt it did not suit her figure; but to-night she wanted the rush of air in her lungs, to feel breathless.

How would it be, she wondered as she ran, to merely live for art? To be herself in every capacity, to not worry about elegance, or grace, or gentility, everything she had been working to be since she was a little girl?

It was too much to think about, she thought as she flung open the door and dropped her wrap on a chair in the entryway; but she knew one thing. She would write Laurie tomorrow, see what was happening at home, at least.

Laurie had been stubborn in not contacting her; he had been wrong. But she, Amy thought reflexively, was just as bad; she would humbly offer her friendship, she thought with a pang, if nothing else. Art _was _a healing balm; aside from her conversations with Pierre, she hadn't thought of Laurie much in the past few days.

"Betsy, I'm back," she called; when she received no answer, she pushed her way into the parlor, thinking the maid involved in yet another_ tete a tete_ with the portly butler, James. Muttering under her breath about inadequate help, she pushed open the door to the parlor after hearing voices, and straightened up imperiously.

"Betsy, I would have a word--"

Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of the occupants in the room; Mrs. Carol, dressed impeccably in a black silk moiré evening gown; her aunt, dressed in a similar style, in dark green with black lace; and a broad, blonde gentleman in evening dress. She quickly met the shocked expressions of her Aunt March and Mrs. Carol, and then, the amused, slightly apprehensive gaze of none other than Fredrick James Vaughn.

Poor Amy's eyes darted from one occupant to the other; she had no speech in her. Finally, feeling her legs sagging, she dropped her filthy skirts and sank into a chair, struggling to keep her expression blank, her back straight. Finally, she managed--

"What on earth are you all doing here?"


	6. Chapter 6

Amy retired to her room that night as quickly as she could without insulting her aunt and Mrs. Carol. Fred, she thought, (unspeakably annoyed at the fact she blushed hard whenever she remembered their meeting earlier in the day,) could go to Halifax and take his stuffy English ways with him!

At first Amy's embarrassment had quickly given way to her usual tact; she laughed off her appearance, lying with a cool detachment that surprised even her about "painting a group of children in the Square, and getting rather dusty," and greeted Fred with a chilly reticence that unfortunately did little to wipe the amusement from that young man's face.

He was dressed from head-to-toe in fine Egyptian linen in the form of a sharp-boating suit that Amy privately thought looked rather silly on land, seeming nothing like the broken young man she'd sent away; time, exercise and money had gone far in healing his wounds, apparently—and his flawless appearance made her all the more aware of her attire. She refused, however, to admit to vanity, and sharply turned down Mrs. Carol's timid suggestion that she "go and freshen up, dear."

Aunt March was the culprit, as had come out during dinner conversation. Hearing he was back from Egypt, the old woman wrote him immediately to come and "take in some fresh air," in France and "rest a bit with my niece," before settling back in England, significantly adding that "Mr. Lawrence, your friend, has recently left us, and the house is quite empty now; you would be welcome."

In Aunt March's cool and worldly view, one rich, well-bred gentleman was quite as good as another, and Fred had been clearly infatuated with Amy before he left. If Laurie, she reasoned, had departed for America without declaring to her niece, she would invite someone else who perhaps stood a better chance. Subtlety was never Aunt March's strong point, but she more than made up for it in efficiency. His fortune was enough, she decided after much consideration, to obliterate the fact that he unfortunately was one of those 'mad English.'

Conversation with Fred was not awkward at all, as Amy did not speak to him, except for monosyllables and replies to direct questions that were absolutely frosty in their politeness. After a couple of attempts, Fred must have seen the mounting rage in her expression, but he seemed not to care. Insolently, he lit a cigar that filled the room with a spicy, exotic tobacco-smell, knowing she hated such things; and he ignored her completely, concentrating on charming Mrs. Carol and Aunt March for the rest of the dinner.

Later, after a flowery speech, he presented her the gift of a beautiful onyx-colored piece carved in the shape of a cunning little cat, from Egypt, and both Aunt March and Mrs. Carol quite 'billed and cooed,' but Amy was not fooled; she saw that the full lips _would _curl up into a smirk when their backs were turned, and his eyes measured her mockingly.

She managed not to look directly at him through the whole exchange, took the gift with the tips of her fingers, thanked him and bid him good-night, then stalked from the room in a display of temper she had not shown in years. Nobody tried to call her back, and the last she heard of the party was Aunt March, calling to the maid for brandy, and Fred.

Laughing, she was sure, at her.

Now that she was in her room, tucked deep in bed, replaying the event in her head, she could have no rest. Her skin was hot, and so was her room-- too hot! Tossing to and fro for a bit, she finally kicked the coverlet off in frustration. Fred's cat seemed to be watching her, licking its stone whiskers contemptuously; and she pushed it off the nightstand. It bounced harmlessly on the floor as she searched for something foul enough to say that would match her mood.

"Oh..._putain la vache_!" she finally cried, remembering the rather rude phrase of Pierre's that had shocked her at first. Immediately she felt better, and rolled over on her side, closing her eyes tightly and trying to sleep.

Oh, _why _was this irritating fellow so persistent?

And if he acted as if he hated her so, why was he even _here?_

********

Morning, Amy found, did not bring relief with the sun; she woke up with very red eyes, and large bruise-like circles under them.

"I simply refuse to look tragic anymore," she swore to her reflection, tempted to powder for the first time in her life. Instead, she entreated the maid to bring her cucumber, chamomile, and other such calming things; and after a cool compress that soothed her skin if not her feelings, she dressed in a mint-colored linen frock, bundled her hair back into a simple plait adored with a white camellia, and left her room after convincing herself that looks mattered little—it was only Fred, after all. She had no emotions to-day, it seemed; she felt encased in ice.

And, Amy reminded herself sternly, she was avoiding him. Pierre was waiting for her; and this was perhaps, she thought with some regret, the last time she would see him before she left for home. Feeling a pang that was quite unexpected, she took her pencil and sketchbook, drank the remaining cold tea, and after a glance to ensure the coast was clear, left the villa.

Amy failed to see a certain yellow head on the north balcony, however, following her slender figure as she ran lightly over the cobblestones; and after a lengthy pause, the owner of the hair lit a cigar, took up his cane and hat, then left in rapid pursuit. His target was rather easy to follow; she walked with her face straight ahead, looking neither to the right nor to the left. The famous Batignolles Street was her destination; and after pausing in front of a rather grimy establishment whose sign pronounced it the Café Guerbois, she lifted her skirts and went inside, her long blonde braid swinging as she went.

Amused as well as curious, Fred followed after a moment, leaving his cane and hat automatically at the door—and then wishing he hadn't, for the crowd inside looked more than questionable. The place was about half-full, and its occupants looked to be a rather rag-tag group of artists and writers of every sex and orientation; they sat in unsegregated groups, talking in low tones, smoking, singing, reciting. Quiet laughter as well as heated arguments broke out here and there in some places, and Fred had to blink several times before his eyes adjusted to the light.

Tucked into a nook near the back, he finally spotted Amy; she was in animated conversation with a thin, bearded, badly-dressed young man who looked to be about two-and-twenty. The fellow spotted Fred first, lifting his brows when he approached their quiet corner, and nodded in welcome.

"Monsieur?" he asked politely. "_Comment allez-vous_?"

Amy followed his gaze and froze, looking furious, knowing immediately that she had been followed. "How dare you," was on the tip of her tongue, but Fred held out a hand.

"No—pray, Miss March, do not be distressed. I happened to see you across the street, and thought I would say hello." and Fred eyed her grubby companion, who seemed amused at this exchange, then bowed to Amy, clicking his heels. "No need to stand on _my_ account, Miss March-- don't trouble yourself."

"You are…Mister Lawrence?" the man said, lifting those craggy brows significantly this time. Amy stared at him in horror, went from pale to red; and immediately muttered in that no indeed, this was Mr. Fred Vaughn of England, it was good of him to stop by, but he would soon be on his way, wouldn't he?

At that, Fred's eyes narrowed; and in impeccable French, he replied that he had no plans, and would be glad to visit with them for a bit if he could; he was overjoyed to meet Mr. Renoir, and was curious as to how he knew of Laurie; was he a mutual acquaintance of theirs?

Pierre opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted when Amy's cup of cider mysteriously found itself upset into his lap; he sprang to his feet, exclaiming aloud, and things as unimportant as mutual acquaintances were forgotten in the rush for napkins and soda water.

At this point, several more artists in Pierre's group tricked in and joined them at the table, dragging chairs, barrels, and any such contrivances they could use to sit when space became scarce. Fred quite stared at the spectacle; he had never seen anything like it. And Miss March sat in the midst of these vagrants, small hands folded in her lap, joining in their conversation so heartily---!

Amy telegraphed a look that clearly showed his feelings were being betrayed on his face; and he immediately summoned up his good breeding, produced his cigar-case and handed it round, and joined in the conversation with a zest that did him good, though he was woefully out of place. He mispronounced common names, was ignorant of the most elementary of poets and artists, and smiled rather patronizingly when presented with an offer to learn; however, his manners were unfailingly correct, he treated each individual with as much respect as if they held the greatest titles, and Amy began to soften towards him, despite herself.

'Good fellow, how well he tries,' she thought, conveniently choosing to forget the fact that she could be quite a snob herself when the occasion allowed, and rewarded his efforts with a slight smile, letting him know all was forgiven—on this count, at least.

How well Laurie would do in the midst of these painters, writers and musicians, she thought with a faraway look that quite transformed her face. His charm, sensual dark looks, and Italian blood would be quite comfortable here; he had their languid, romanticized quality. Fred, for all he tried, with all his huge, bronzed English brawn, could not look like he remotely belonged; if Laurie was Apollo and she was Diana, Fred was something more akin to a bumbling Hercules.

Fred had been watching her intently, and something in his heart quickened when he saw the sudden softness in her face. Despite the façade, he had come back to Paris with only one intent in mind, to see if Aunt March was correct, and she could possibly be persuaded to--

"Miss March?" he said quietly, placed a hand on her elbow.

Amy came to in an instant when he spoke, blinking as if awakened suddenly from some pleasant dream; and frowned when she saw Fred sitting there, as if she had not expected to see his face. She suddenly sprang to her feet, kissed her companions warmly, and said she must go.

Fred rose as well; but to the amusement of the others, Amy did not wait for him; she collected her things and was out the door before he half-finished his farewells, and he stared in disbelief.

"The woman has Saxon blood, obviously," he muttered, put on his hat, and raced off, the applause of the vagrant crowd in his ear. He could not help but pause and give a bow at this, rolling his eyes, and exited to catch sight of a flurry of pale green skirt rounding the bend.

Fred obligingly picked up the pace; and in a minute, it was a very flushed, overheated young man that found himself next to Amy; she was cool as a cucumber, save for rather red cheeks; and he waited for about a minute of rapid walking before he spoke.

"Hey now, Miss March, what is the meaning of this?"

"The meaning of what?"

"This…" And he made some vague demonstration with his hands, biting his lip. "I am sorry you had no warning as to my coming. Your aunt made me to understand that you were…willing." Fred spoke rather slowly, rather deliberately; he had known the instant Amy arrived that it wasn't the case, but he wanted desperately—so desperately--!—to change her mind…

He shook the thought from his head. It was not for him, now.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asked simply, stopping in the middle of the street.

Amy took in a deep breath, and suddenly felt tired, stopping alongside him, dropping her petticoats in the dust. It was not her intention to treat him badly, but she did not want to _think; _she just wanted him gone. He, and all the worries that came with this.

Fred saw the look and commented on it with his usual bluntness. "You've had worries," he said simply. "You look terrible, Miss March. A woman such as yourself shouldn't have worries."

Amy said nothing, only shot him a freezing look. Undaunted, he took her sketchbook from her, tucked it under his arm with his cane, and began to whistle, softly. He offered Amy his free one, but she did not take it.

"Just attempting to be a gentleman, Miss March--" airily.

"A gentleman would have left this morning after seeing his presence was not welcome," Amy replied rather acidly.

"Like Lawrence did, what?"

It was a shot in the dark, but Fred had been putting two and two together; and when Amy blanched and then stumbled on the cobblestones, he reached out, steadied her took her left hand into a firm grip, then looked down into eyes that went in an instant from angry to painful.

"Amy." All politeness and pretension was gone now. "Are you engaged?"

The chin lifted, and there was just a fraction of hesitation before she answered. "It's none of your business."

Fred's light brows nearly touched his shaggy hair-line, and his eyes traveled quite significantly down the length of her arm to where the all-important finger rested, naked in his palm. He turned the small white hand over gently, pausing them both in the middle of a pretty avenue overhung with bowers; they had often strolled through gardens like this during their courtship, but never under these conditions.

"I cannot imagine," he said as nonchalantly as if he was discussing the weather, "that any in your family would oppose to your marrying Lawrence. I, I know, am viewed by the illustrious Marches as an English devil who does little but smoke, gamble and drink, which is perhaps why you sent me packing, but...Lawrence? I would think your parents-- not to mention your aunt-- would be delighted."

Amy scowled and tried to break away, but he held her fast, laughing quietly. "Amy, what has happened? We used to talk, you know."

"Wherever did you come by that idea?" Amy snapped. "We never used to talk--- you used to talk, and I pretended to listen. Let go of me, Fred, or I shall scream."

"—so she can no longer bear my touch. Death, where _is _thy welcome sting?"—he released her; and Amy, ignoring his mocking tone, rubbed her arm as if it had been contaminated. "Amy," he continued, his face suddenly earnest. "Just answer me this-- why did he go?"

"Fred--"

"Did he break the engagement?"

"Fred--"

"You hard-hearted girl, you turned him down as well, didn't you? Not wise, Amy. You'll soon lose your looks, I'd have tired of you by then and married some good English girl my blasted father chooses for me, and you shall be a spinster."

"Fred!"

"Perhaps you'll converge with that French riff-raff—Pierre, was it. Horrid paintings."

"_Vous êtes stupide_," Amy replied with great dignity, though a part of her—a very small part, and one that was growing rapidly horrified at the concept--- was amused by Fred's rambling.

"You have improved your French, I see."

"_Tu es betes comme tes pieds," _Amy replied, trying not to smile. She was unsuccessful, however; her lips _would _curve up betrayingly at Fred's nonsense, despite her anger. "Oh-- do hush, Fred. I've exhausted all my French insults for the moment."

"You see—there--! I have amused you, Amy, at a great detriment to my manliness; and you cannot deny it, so you owe me at least an answer. Where is Laurie?"

Amy suddenly looked very tired, and the mirth Fred had somehow managed to create dissipated like a morning mist. "I sent him; he is needed at home. He has been...there some weeks."

"And he went? Left you alone here, in your grief?" Fred's countenance had darkened; suddenly, the amusement in his tone was gone. "Forgive me, Amy, but I cannot condone that."

"It's not your place to condone or praise anything I do," she said, cuttingly. "There, Fred; you have the story, regardless of what Aunt March may have concocted to get you here. Now you can go home."

Fred's blue eyes narrowed. "I don't seem to recall you being this vicious, Amy. What happened to the lady I left behind?" his tone was biting, and some demonic part of Amy took a perverse pleasure in the fact she was nipping him in a tender spot, finally making him angry.

"She grew tired of your nagging and left," Amy said airily, then tossed her head and stepped forward, intending to put as much space between herself and Fred as possible. Unfortunately for her, however, her long plait flew out, catching an unfortunately placed button on Fred's overcoat; she jerked backwards with a little shriek, actually thinking for a moment that her curls had been pulled out by the roots. Tears of real pain sprung to her eyes. "Fred!"

"Twasn't me!" he was quick to say. "Hold still, child, and cease your whining."

Amy ignored him and jerked the braid, trying to get it free, but winced again as she became even more firmly caught. Fred snorted and came up close behind her, and she stiffened, but decided grudgingly that eating humble pie was probably better than being snatched bald-headed.

"Please help me," she said through stiff lips; "if you would be so kind, Mr. Vaughn."

Fred's lips twitched, but he wisely didn't rub it in; instead, he began to patiently unwind the long, silvery strands from his buttons, undoing her plait and making hay of her hair in the process. Amy lifted her chin, mentally willing the procedure not to take long--- but Fred seemed perfectly content to stand like this, holding her close round her waist, the fingers of his other hand trailing lazily through her curls. His anger was gone now, it seemed; they were on equal playing fields.

"You would likely work better if you used both hands," Amy snapped, rolling her eyes to the side so she could see him; and he chuckled low in his throat, a rumble that she felt down to her toes, despite her irritation. The sun was warm, soothing; and despite the closeness of his proximity, his fingers in her hair were gentle. She bit her lip, not wanting to enjoy any of this, remembering Laurie's touch---

Something inside her wrenched, and she turned her face away.

Fred sensed the change; the amusement disappeared from his face, and his fingers quickened, trying to finish the job quickly, now.

"Amy, I fear I'll have to cut a lock off. You and I are pretty tangled up."

"Do it" came the strained small voice from somewhere in his waistcoat; and Fred produced a pocket-knife. The deed was done quickly, and Amy pulled away from him just as fast, shaking down her loosened hair to cover a flushed face with very full eyes. Fred saw this and said kindly; "There, my girl, it's only hair. Come, take this handkerchief from me, and I'll stop being such a beast."

He said it in the old gentle, wheedling tone she liked, took out the linen square himself and wiped her face, then handed it to her, tucking it into her hand, patting it for good measure. Amy managed a tremulous smile.

"Fred, don't think me so vain; it's not my hair. It's just---" and she cut her statement short, coloring. Better for Fred to think her vain then to know her true business. However, there was a grave, knowing look on his face that made her look away; if he did not know the details, he had at least read the outline of the tale.

Fred waited for her to finish her sentence, and when she did not, he spoke, and his voice was gentle. "Amy, you must forgive me for appearing so suddenly—it was never my intention to distress you, but I heard about your sister, and knew you were alone here save for your aunt, and---well. I do care. I hope we can be friends, if nothing more."

Amy's lips twisted up a little bitterly, thinking of Jo. "I don't know, Fred. In my experience, it seems as if friendships between single ladies and young gentlemen always end up a bit more trouble than they are worth."

He lifted a brow. "We will be careful then. I would hate to make the same mistake as anyone else."

"Fred…"

"I don't want you to be rid of me, Amy."


End file.
